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Roam: Chapter 07
Chapter 7 Characters * [[2664 Ife Tusk|'General Ife Tusk']] * [[1187 Hessal Varagy, C.|'Hessal Varagy, C.']] * (Haital) Locations * Hessal's Townhouse Contents Ife Tusk The moonlight was bright enough, when the gaps in the clouds allowed, for Ife to cast a shadow on the tiled veranda. His host, the Consul Hessal Varagy, owned a fairly modest home on the steepest slope of the Companion Hill, which consisted of a number of tiers set into the hillside, providing enough room for Hessal to entertain a few guests and conduct his Consular duties, but little more. Ife had met Hessal’s husband Nusal Sarevir-Machyal, the youngest of the Governor of Crylalt Proud Machyal’s sons, and his wife Sepredas Candoam at the private dinner which had been convened for his benefit when Coughy Pagnal had finally brought him here after prattling on for hours in the baths, oblivious to the disrespect that treating him like an animal to be quarantined implied, but the spouses had left at the first opportunity to Proud Machyal’s mansion on the far side of the Stadium. Apart from the numerous slaves, the only other residents of the house were Hessal’s children by a confusing chronology of marriages, who had been paraded reluctantly in front of their guest before being hustled off to bed. Ife hadn’t devoted any of his mental energies to committing any of their bewildering names to memory, exhausted as he was after a long day of travelling and enduring diplomacy, both official and decidedly not. There was a blunt heaviness behind his eyes which he dearly wanted to relieve, but here he was, stood outside his room looking across the brick valleys and marble hills, all rendered black and blue in the moonlight. There was no way that it was possible, but Ife could feel the World-Beast beneath him, this walking mountain, moving; tilting as it gradually transferred its weight between its four massive legs over the hours. All of the candles of his chambers were hanging from the ceiling or counterweighted in nifty contraptions so that they would not tilt and spill with the imperceptible but definite movement of the Beast, which only made it seem that the candles themselves were gradually swaying. It was somehow worse than seasickness for its invidiousness, and that took a lot for Ife to say. He couldn’t really see the steady horizon to settle his stomach, his trick for staving off the fires of his stomach, so he was trying to distract himself to allow the weight of his tiredness to finally relieve him of sensation. Luckily, he had a lot of thoughts with which to distract himself. It had become apparent after a very short amount of time that his welcoming party were conspiring to prevent Ife from talking to his brother. The Consul Coughy Pagnal had to have been in on the plan, but Ife was not convinced that any of his tiresome overtures of amity between them, strangers, and their peoples, sworn enemies for half a century, would have differed by so much as a word if he had not been. He appeared to think that diplomacy was a matter of overwhelming an adversary with sheer quantity, like the Mederyans thought they could roll over the Rakean Royal Hoplites at Steamon. It had certainly been exhausting, but had only served to gird Ife’s smile and shield his mind. The diplomat Onem Starling, who had met Ife at the Rightern Gates of Roam along with Hessal (visibly flustered regarding Ife’s so-called kidnapping), was a slyer character – the sort of soft-handed Naechisian noble that Ife had learned to despise from his father, but also never to underestimate. It had been men like him who had betrayed his father and his undefeated army to Roam as soon as the war had landed on their shores. He had hewn close to Oba, deflecting any attempts to progress beyond empty pleasantries with well-judged questions on points of diplomacy which Ife could not reasonably have ignored without seeming tin-eared. That had also been exhausting, in a more active way, like deploying soldiers in battle whilst watching the enemy’s line for ruses and counter-ruses. Hessal seemed more interested in convincing his guest of his worldliness than playing any sort of mind-games, unless he was operating on a plane that Ife just couldn’t see. That was tiring in its own way, of course, and Ife was greatly relieved when all of the (supposedly impromptu) pageantry of dinner had ended and he was allowed to retire to his guest chambers. Ife had inherited his father’s incredibly ability to fall asleep at will, catching fifteen minutes in his tent while awaiting the return of a scout, or dozing on his horse while his adjutants kept watch. He needed next to no rest compared to other men, and seemed able to force his mind into acuity despite days with little or no respite. Not that he did not understand the necessity and benefits of sleep for himself of his men, but he never seemed able to stay asleep for longer than four or five hours before waking again, immediately at full capacity. Sometimes he wondered how much his and his father’s military prowess was down to this quirk, allowing them to ponder strategy for more hours of the day than their enemy, and also providing the handy disciplinary benefit that his soldiers could never relax in the knowledge that their general was probably abed. He had slept in rowdy camps; he had slept in hiding in the mountains with his pursuers within earshot; he had even slept on battlefields when he judged that refreshing his faculties would be of greater use than the moral boost to his men from his immediate, groggy presence. But tonight, despite the day at sea which had kept him heaving, and the ride to Roam and the diplomatic shenanigans and the endless introductions and course after dainty course of fine, unsatisfying food and conversation, he could not find the comfort of oblivion. He had woken Ife in the night, his eyes raw and his breath ragged, foul but without the accent of wine that Ife had first feared, and taken him around the camp, each watchman still saluting them proudly, their chest bursting with loyalty, each allied tribesman toasting them raucously. His father had said nothing, never a man of words, rarely a man of emotion such as that rimming his eyes in the campfire light, and certainly not one to surrender to indisciplined words; Ife had kept quiet too, certain that the unspoken sentiments of his father resonated within him – that he heard the inadequacy of each thought that caught in his father’s throat, or worked uselessly around his mouth before being swallowed in frustration. The light was beginning to gather to the east, summoning the uniquely chilling winds of that hour. His father must have known that those winds would bring forth the riders from Roam who would carry him and his firstborn son away in chains, but he didn’t tell Ife that. When the moment overcame him, after however long they had processed wordlessly, he turned to his second son, his grey-green eyes suddenly hard, pinning Ife in place with their earnestness. “Can’t sleep, General?” came the voice of his host in Issycrian. Ife could see his shadow approaching from behind him on the veranda. Ife turned and gave Hessal a grim nod, softened by a commiseratory smile. The Consul had divested himself of his toga and ceremonial braided rope, wearing only a loose tunic and slippers. His black curls, retreating in poor order from his temples, were in disarray, first from having been slept upon, and then from the playful midnight wind which teased at them. He had a slightly sinister frown to his neutral expression, with his brows pointing down to the top of his pointy nose, which bore a strange zig-zagged crumple where they met, and a slight downturn to the edges of his thin-lipped mouth; his cheerful demeanour seemed well-practiced, as if he had been instructed at a young age that he had to stand on guard against the natural disposition of his face. “They say that it is the most valuable commodity on Roam,” Hessal said. His blue eyes caught the moonlight in a way that Ife had never really seen. “Sleep, that is,” he clarified with a smile. “Is that because of the noise or the stress?” Ife asked. Issycrian was easier when he was tired, so he was fine with it. “Yes,” Hessal chuckled. “Very much both. And, believe me, the Companion Hill here is as peaceful as a necropolis compared to the noise at night elsewhere in the city, nearer on of the fora, for instance. The Blood Forum, I swear, is louder during the night than during the day.” The noise hadn’t really bothered Ife, truth be told. He allowed his mind to stop disregarding it, heeding again the clatter of slaves pulling carts up uneven streets, the shouts of young drunks coming from some unseen drinking establishment, and the rattling, cadenced marching of some patrol of Roaman soldiers below him. Roam actually sounded like an army camp, comforting Ife far more than it distracted him. Perhaps near the Blood Forum there might be the soothing, rhythmic clank of weapon smithies, or neared the Stadium, which stretched out before the Senate Hill in front of them, the sound of horses at rest, seemingly the only beasts allowed within the city walls but for the impetuous cats which infested the entire place. “Do you like yera tea, General Tusk?” asked Hessal, stood beside him now, admiring the contours of the city. “I honestly don’t think that I have ever heard of it,” Ife said. Roaman teas were not prevalent amongst the soldiery of Naechis, which even his host should probably have known. “That surprises me,” said Hessal. “I was led to believe that you lived in the Crylaltian Interior for much of your childhood?” “I did,” Ife nodded, wondering if it was his tiredness making the flow of conversation seem disjointed. “My father believes, as do I, that a general ought to take his sons to war with him.” “Not that you have any sons,” said Hessal. “Or a war, I suppose?” “I have no sons,” Ife said. His father had had five, by his age. His father had died by his age. “War? I’ve had plenty.” “Ah, yes,” Hessal nodded. Ife couldn’t tell if he was earnestly remembering. “Your father’s army in the employ of the Samyrtians, protecting their northern borders from the Feors?” “My army,” Ife corrected him. “We weren’t able to return to Pricia, as I’m sure you’re aware, under the terms of the peace treaty.” “Of course. I meant no offence, General. It is noble of you to protect the borders of your allies to the north.” “It is mutually beneficial,” Ife nodded slowly. “As was your father’s alliance with the tribes of Crylalt,” Hessal’s eyes glinted, “which was my point. Bringing together all of those competing barbarians into one confederation – if you couldn’t vouch for it, I wouldn’t believe it was at all possible. My father-in-law Proud Machyal could only dream of such a feat of diplomacy.” “Well, that’s because my father united them in hatred of Roam,” Ife said wryly. “I imagine your father-in-law, being the Roaman Governor claiming sovereignty over them with paper, would have a hard time making the same appeals.” “Ha ha!” laughed Hessal, in such a peculiar way that Ife could only assume it was genuine. “I suppose so! But did those tribesmen not drink yera tea? I am assured they are its origin…” “Oh, that stuff?” asked Ife. “It smells like bitter smoke?” “Yes!” exclaimed Varagy excitedly. “So they do drink it?” “Yes, though I didn’t know that it was called…” “Yera.” “Yera. We just called it Apprian tea, I think. After the tribe.” “Fascinating,” Hessal smiled. “Would you like to try some?” “Now?” Ife frowned. “Isn’t it used to stay awake? The lookouts and outriders drink it.” “There are two ways to prepare it,” Hessal waved to a slave who had been standing at the threshold of the veranda, who disappeared into the house. “I find the second to be very effective in procuring that most expensive commodity.” “As long as you aren’t attempting to poison me,” Ife said. Hessal’s mouth twitched for a second before he realised that the statement was a joke. Hessal was too smitten by Ife’s exoticism to ever contemplate harming him. Most of the Roamans he had met seemed more enamoured of Naechis than enemies of it, except for the soldiery themselves, who had better sense than to consider Naechis a harmless curiosity. Not for the first time, he wondered exactly what the Naechisian Council hoped to achieve by sending him here in a diplomatic capacity – not his forte, to be certain – and he wished that Starling had taken any opportunity to clarify matters. The Council was meritocratic – at each election (roughly once every two years) those citizens of Naechis who wished to stand pledged an amount of money to be considered for a seat. Other candidates could not know the value of the bid until the results were announced, though they could raise their own bids in response. All of the bids were kept by the treasury, though only the top one hundred and twenty-eight bidders a place on the Third Council. The Third Council elected the thirty-two Second Councillors, who in turn elected the eight First Councillors. The First Councillors chose one of their number to serve as a Director for a term of four years, with the two Directors overlapping for two years before the longer serving was replaced. The system had served Naechis well, remaining strong and stable for centuries since its inception as a means of mediating disputes amongst rival merchants, but it was also remarkably conservative. There was no way that the Council would have sent Ife to Roam if it considered doing so a risk. They clearly did not consider the possibility that his presence here could be provocative, as they would not be of a mind to declare war on Roam unless they could be sure of a victory. Naechis had a long memory; Roam, with its constant churn of ambitious and short-lived politicians-cum-generals, was prone to somewhat more rash behaviour. But if Ife was not ordered here to intimidate Roam, as Naechis’s most feared and fearsome general, and the Council surely weren’t foolish enough to expect him to genuflect to the Senate that had executed his father, then why was he here, as the guest of a Consul? Did they think him an appropriate candidate to renegotiate the peace treaty of twenty years’ standing – perhaps to be allowed to return his exiled army to its rightful home in Pricia? If so, how could they consider him able to do so from a position of ignorance? Ife had not made his name as a commander by marching into situations like this without any intelligence. As Hessal wandered off to prepare their tea, he wondered if he had in fact made a fatal mistake in coming here, at the mercy of his hated, smiling enemies. But only for a moment. Hessal Varagy “The tribesmen treat these humble gourds as war trophies,” Hessal told his guest as he poured the boiling water into the hand-sized cup full of the ground root tea. “Taking another warrior’s yera gourd is seen as the ultimate victory, and losing one is naturally a great disgrace.” The Naechisian general turned slowly, as if coming back to the veranda from a far distant land. His pales eyes focussed reluctantly on the cup in Hessal’s hands. “See these scratches here? That’s the autograph of a horseman who claimed this gourd from… this one, presumably deceased.” “I did not know that,” Tusk said peering at the childish runes in the low light. Hessal held it out for him to take. “I suppose that the gourds are quite rare in the Interior?” Hessal said. “And scarcity makes them valuable, of course. I imagine your crafty Naechisian traders have made a good business over the centuries restricting the flow of gourds into Crylalt. All conjecture on my part, of course.” Ife regarded him sceptically over the rim of the gourd, but didn’t venture a counter-theory. Most of the tribesmen he could remember drank it out of bulls’ horns, anyway. He went to move the straw to stir up the grainy mixture. “No!” shouted Hessal before catching himself. “Sorry, General, it’s just that the straw is supposed to stay fixed in place throughout the drinking ceremony!” “You seem quite beholden to the rules of barbarians,” Tusk said, withdrawing his hand. He took a long, wincing sniff of the tea, then a probing suck on the straw. “It’s sweeter than I expected.” “Ah, yes,” Hessal smiled. “That’s my intervention, I’m afraid. Honey and sugar reed from Kalykia. Softens the bite a bit – though it has also softened my teeth over the years – and it peculiarly seems to make it act as a sleeping aid rather than a waking one.” “You lived in Issycria for some years?” Tusk asked. Hessal had not said as much, but perhaps the Naechisian had surmised as much from his taste for the Sellanic, or had done some research on his host before arriving, though he was not vain enough to imagine that his name was well known in furthest Samyrt, nor that his many publications on Issycrian culture were read beyond the borders of the Republic. “Yes,” Hessal nodded. “In exile, during the Tyranny. It was a terrible time for Roam. I feel quite guilty that I had such a broadening experience while my city suffered – though exile was not without its dangers, and I was not merely a spectator.” “I was under the impression that you were a Provincial citizen,” Tusk frowned. He sipped again, the straw (really a bundle of straws) rattling as it dried out the gourd. “So?” Hessal reached out to take it back, that he might refill it. “You refer to Roam as your city. Is Varagy not here in Nelunty?” “It is indeed,” Hessal smiled, pouring water from the kettle into the gourd again. He knew that his slave Haital would be twitching out of sight in the shadows, always fussing about as if Hessal were so useless as to need help pouring a kettle. “A fierce little town on the old borders of Fuscry, Oscumy and Inachria - a sort of crossroads/trading post/melting pot sort of town,” he waggled his free hand to emphasise the point, “though legally under the jurisdiction of the Governor Nelunty now. Semural Juctor is his name. My father married into Roaman society as a first-generation citizen, and embodied all of its greatest virtues. He worked every day of his life for me and my future. When I was three he earned a posting at the Varcian Well up in Straecy, and I’ve never been back to Varagy since, really. I was raised a Roaman, as I’m sure you consider yourself a Naechisian.” Not that it had stopped his political opponents, chiefly that underhanded Companion cunt Lumosural Osty Voriel, from accusing his father of never having been confirmed a Roaman citizen following the Inachironic War, and thus disqualifying Hessal as a candidate for Consul. Even when the public slaves had finally been able to find the documents verifying his citizenship deep in the archives beneath the Juctor Palace, Lumosural had declared them forgeries. Despite his eventual (close) victory, that despicable rumour was a stain that Hessal wasn’t sure he would ever be able to wash clean. “Hmm,” replied Tusk noncommittally. He looked up at the grand Senate House atop Roam’s tallest hill at the very centre of the city as Hessal drank his turn. “I’ve written whole works in Issycrian,” said Hessal as he refilled the gourd again. “I’m not sure I could so much as ask my way to the loo in Neluntian any more.” “That question is pretty universal, trust me,” Tusk’s huge shoulders lifted a little as he exhaled a half laugh. He looked down at the yera gourd, which looked so small in his hand. “I remember the chiefs of all the tribes passing one of these around whilst sitting in my father’s tent. It must have been to celebrate the agreement of the confederation, I suppose. I would have been… eight?” “That must have been a particularly prized gourd,” Hessal said, imagining the bearded chieftains and Osa Tusk and old Inachiron around a fire, laughing and toasting the doom of Roam. “I wonder what became of it.” “Perhaps your father-in-law knows?” Tusk suggested. “Perhaps,” Hessal nodded. “He had made occasional alliances with tribes, such as the Appries.” “Who took advantage of his help to crush their enemies, then spilled out of the Interior to terrorise and plunder the coastal cities,” Tusk smiled. “So you’ve heard?” “No,” Tusk shook his head. “I just guessed. Your man is wasting his time there. Crylalt is too large and too wild to ever be controlled, let alone by just one man.” “They said that before he pacified the seas,” Hessal objected. “Seas that Naechis had pacified for centuries, and only fell to piracy when they were surrendered to Roam.” When the Naechisian fleet had been obliterated at the Sycadine Stacks, then its replacement wrecked foolishly trying to escape blockade at Naechym. Ife seemed to have a difficult time admitting the defeat of his people twenty years ago, though Hessal was of no mind and of better manners than to antagonise his guest. “The whole of Crylalt has never been held by anyone. Even the Sun-Prince sailed right past it. Proud Machyal’s father, for all his flaws, had the right idea when he started building those massive walls around the coastal regions: hold what you can. He should learn from that, and not spread himself too thin.” “Perhaps Proud Machyal is fuelled by a greater ambition than you, General,” Hessal said. He handed the general a new full cup. The taste of the tea was mellowing somewhat as they took their turns. “Politics on Roam is very closely tied to military glory, unlike Naechis.” “Not always so, Consul,” Tusk eyed him. “I don’t believe you have any military experience to speak of, unless I am mistaken.” “My life has taken a different path,” Hessal said, refusing to sound defensive. He couldn’t tell if Tusk was needling him or not along the same lines as his opponents had during his election campaign. Did Naechisians also see him as merely a puppet of his father-in-law? The simple truth was that Roam had been at peace, excluding the brief Home War, for the past fifteen years, slowly getting back on its feet following the horrors of the Tyranny. Military exploits were few and far between, particularly for Provincials, who were largely frozen out of selection as Officers or Well Captains by the Familials and Companions that held sway in the Senate, throttling in the crib their political prospects up Machyal’s Ladder, the legally codified system of political progress imposed by the tyrant, which had long outlasted him. Either more Roamans such as the brazen Curly Coltal Candoam would pursue illegal and disreputable wars of their own to soak themselves in the perfume of military success, or the Roaman people would have to learn to accept more politicians such as himself, whose skill at oratory and the law made him a great statesman in the Issycrian tradition. That said, Hessal knew that a successful military campaign would greatly improve his prospects of re-election further down the line… “Proud Machyal won’t find glory in the dusts of Crylalt,” Tusk said. “It is a graveyard for ambitions. Besides, what ambitions could such a man have? He has been Consul, your highest office, and won a Triumph. Would he follow in his father’s footsteps and rule Roam by decree?” “He is no tyrant,” Hessal insisted. “He labours under his father’s shadow every day.” “Shadows weigh nothing,” said Ife. Hessal wasn’t foolish enough to think that the son of Osa Tusk thought that. “I would not have married his son Nusal had I the slightest doubt of his detestation of tyranny,” said Hessal. Ife raised an eyebrow ever so slightly. “I wrote polemics against his father from Issycria. An assassination attempt was made on my life, such was their impact on Roam. When the bastard tyrant died, I returned to Roam to find Proud Machyal overseeing free and fair elections in his place, in which I was in fact chosen as a Bursar of Roam. No, Proud Machyal is that rare and admirable breed of man whose ambitions are not for himself.” “A man of your age must surely have learned not to have heroes,” Tusk said. Hessal ran a hand through his wayward curls, thinner every day. “When you get to my age,” he chose to smile – he was less than a decade older than the general, “you find that you need heroes more than ever.” The kettle had enough for one more round, by Hessal’s reckoning. He flicked some of the drier yera into the wetter parts of the gourd to restore a little of its kick. His shoulders were beginning to feel the loosening effects of the tea. “The Sarevirs are much like your Tusk,” he said, offering the gourd. “They take their boys to war with them, preparing them for the lifetime of war, in honour of their ancestor, the war god Sarevir.” He glanced up at the heavens, wondering whether the wandering red star was visible that night. He had never really been good at astronomy. “The Issycrians call that god Ctinadon,” Tusk said. “They see his red as fire, not blood.” “They do indeed,” Hessal nodded, impressed. Tusk was somewhat curt and undiplomatic, but his brutish exterior occasionally parted to reveal a surprisingly well-educated man. “Well, like you, Proud Machyal grew up in Crylalt, a son of war. I dare say that his visits to Roam frustrate him, and that – though the sentiment is almost certainly not reciprocated – he feels more at home in those Crylaltian dusts. As I suppose you might. Perhaps his attempts to bring peace to the continent as its Governor make more sense in that light?” Tusk was sucking mindlessly at the yera, his eyes unfocussed. Perhaps he was wondering where exactly he considered his home to be. “General Tusk?” Hessal asked politely. “Your husband is the grandson of the man who executed my father,” he said slowly. “Here, on Roam. But not here. I don’t even know where.” “In the Roaman Province, I believe,” Hessal said, swallowing. “I apologise for the crimes of that tyrant, General. On behalf of Roam, if I may be so bold.” Tusk rolled his jaw, like a bull chewing a cud. Hessal’s mind raced to pick his words carefully, the situation suddenly having attained some diplomatic heft. “We have a tradition on Roam,” he said, “that the crimes of a father –” “Are not those of a son,” Tusk finished for him. “Nor his those of his brother. Yes, I’ve heard. You bear no guilt, Consul. Hessal. Excuse me, I am no diplomat. Like your father-in-law, I much desire to be far from Roam as soon as possible. By which I do not mean to demean or insult your hospitality.” He gave Hessal an earnest look. The year was done. “Of course,” Hessal smiled. “No offence taken. We all want to go home and be at peace.” “For which I am most grateful for your tea,” Tusk placed a large, dark hand over Hessal’s shoulder. The weight of it was almost enough to make Hessal shiver. “I hope that it might help me find peace in my bed.” “I hope so too, General,” Hessal nodded. “I am chairing a session of the Senate tomorrow morning, as you know, and it would be much appreciated if you could attend, if you are well rested.” “I will be there,” Tusk assured him. “Whether I sleep or not. It’s why I have come here, is it not?” Hessal hoped so. Category:Chapter Category:Ife POV Chapter Category:Hessal POV Chapter